The Writer and the Time Lord
by snowboarder-bri
Summary: A string of mysterious disappearances. A strange man in a blue box. A legend passed down from long ago. What do these three things have in common? Journalist and author hopeful Alana Grey investigates their connection, and uncovers a world she never dreamed possible.


**I own ****_nothing. _****Doctor Who belongs solely to the BBC and Satan, I mean Steven Moffat. Please R&R, your support is invaluable! **

**Thanks,**

**Bri**

* * *

"Mummy, tell me one more story, please?" This is my earliest memory. I was five years old, and it was past my bedtime. My mother smiled, hiding the obvious frustration she had at my reluctance to go to sleep.

"Alright, Alana," she told me, leaning down and brushing my golden brown curls from my face, "last story, then you'll go to bed, right? Your sister's been asleep for an hour." My mother thought for a moment. "I know one my dad used to tell me when I was your age, passed down for generations."

I clutched my worn teddy bear tighter to my chest and nestled further into my sheets. "Long, long ago," she started, "there lived a man in a blue phone box called the Doctor. No one knew where he was from or who he was. He just showed up when people need help.

"Well, one day, an entire army of aliens appeared from the sky and came to Earth, attacking London, burning entire villages to the ground!" My eyes widened in childlike surprise and anticipation of the outcome. "Just when the people thought all was lost, a police box appeared. The Doctor stepped out and stood up to the fleet of aliens, outnumbered a million to one, as all the townspeople watched. He told the aliens to leave; he told them that this planet was protected. And you know what? They did. Every last one of them. Now the townspeople, they couldn't believe their eyes. _One man_ stopped an entire army of aliens by himself. And without saying anything, he went back inside his police box, and disappeared forever.

"Now, legend says that if you ever need help, look to the stars and he'll show up, wherever you are, and save the day." My mother kissed my forehead and walked to my doorframe. "Now go to bed."

"Mummy?" My voice was weary.

"Yes, Alana?"

"Do you think the Doctor helped Daddy?"

She blinked away a tear. "Yes, sweetheart, I do," she answered, turning off my light and leaving my door open just a crack.

Now, fifteen years later, this memory is exactly what comes to mind as I stand in my boss's office, listening to him describe what he wants from the article I've been assigned to write for the _London Informer,_ the newspaper I work for. I'm an investigative journalist, but only until I can get some inspiration for a novel.

"People have been going missing, and turn up exactly two days later with no memory of what happened," Mr. Davis says, "and I want it covered. Find out as much as you can. Interview people, go to a hospital, whatever you need, but I want it in by Friday."

My mother was one of those people. She went missing about a week ago. The police found her two days later. She doesn't remember my twenty-six year old sister, Jen, and she doesn't remember me. The doctors all said she was fine, that the amnesia she was experiencing was unusual but probably due to post-traumatic stress disorder and should go away, but I'll believe that when I see it. This has been happening all over England, and now I'm determined to find out why.

"Grey, are you listening? Alana!" Mr. Davis's gruff voice brings me from my near-catatonic state of mind back to reality.

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah, I'll get right on that," I stutter.

"Good. Hurry up about it, too." He shoos me from his office. I quickly grab my notepad and a pen from my desk drawer and head out.

After a quick brainstorming session in the driver's seat of my beater Volkswagen, I decide a hospital would be a good place to start. I drive to St. Bartholomew's Hospital to do some digging.

The walls of St. Bartholomew's are an eggshell white color that is almost too bright, covered with abstract paintings of fall scenery. It's only thing that really stands out as I enter their reception area, which is dotted with a few nervous-looking people in armchairs waiting to find out how their loved ones are doing. I start asking the staff about the recent amnesia cases, and one helpful nurse points me in the direction of a doctor in charge of them.

Dr. G. Vaughan, as his nametag reads, is a man with salt-and-pepper hair and rimless glasses. I approach him just as he finishes talking to someone else. "Excuse me, Dr. Vaughan, my name is Alana Grey with the _London Informer,_ I was wondering if you could answer a few questions about the recent amnesia cases people have been experiencing." I execute my opening statement just as rehearsed.

"Yes, I suppose I could answer a few," Dr. Vaughan replies, "but you need to make it quick."

I start asking right away. "Have the patients you've treated experienced any unusual symptoms other than the amnesia?"

He shakes his head. "No, other than their complete memory loss, they seem just fine." I begin scribbling notes.

"What do you suppose is causing the memory loss?"

Dr. Vaughan shrugs. "I honestly don't know for sure. In thirty-five years of medical experience, I haven't encountered anything like this. My best guess, however, is post-traumatic stress disorder."

Before I can fire any more questions, his pager goes off, and somewhere, a loudspeaker blasts, "Dr. Gregory Vaughan to Intensive Care, please. Dr. Gregory Vaughan to Intensive Care."

He checks it quickly. "I'm very sorry, but I have to take this." And just like that, my interview is cut short and I am left standing in a hospital corridor reeking of ammonia and depression.

"So much for that," I mutter in an exasperated sigh as I exit the hospital. Immediately my gut tells me something is different. I finally locate the source of my intuition: a police box now stands tall in an alley near the hospital. That's new. It looks like the kind from old black and white movies, only this one is real and in good condition and in an alley_. Odd place to discard it_, I think to myself as I raise an eyebrow at it and go to investigate.

The police box is sort of captivating to look at, in the same way old photos are. It's a bit worn, but not as worn as I'd expect, and I find myself wondering what it's seen as I run my fingers along the exterior wood.

"Are you going to stroke my TARDIS all day?" a voice from behind me says, making me jump. I whip around to find a man in a tweed jacket and a bow tie looking at me in confusion.

I match that look as my heart rate settles back to normal. "Your what?"

"My TARDIS." He glances down at my notepad. "What do you have there?"

"Oh, it's just-" Before I can answer, he takes the notepad from my hand and flips through it. "Or you could take it from me, that works too..."

He tilts my notepad every way he can and squints, attempting to read it. "It's completely illegible," he concludes, giving it back to me.

I frown. "I have terrible handwriting, so what? What I was going to say was it contains some notes I was taking about a bunch of missing persons cases for an article. I'm a journalist."

He cocks an eyebrow. "Missing how?"

"It's weird. They go missing for exactly two days, and then turn up with no explanation and no memory of what happened. Now if you want more information, you're going to have to wait until Friday to read it."

"I'm not waiting, I hate waiting," the man replies. "I tried it once and it was completely dreadful. But, I think I know how all these disappearances are occurring."

"How, then?" I pry.

The man looks at me, dead serious. "Aliens." _Great,_ I think sarcastically, _he's a basket case…_

I work hard to keep a disbelieving grin off my face. That was the most ridiculous theory I have ever come across. "Aliens? Really?"

"Yes," he replies, "aliens."

And thus begins the craziest few days of my life, spent writing, following around a lunatic, and doing the impossible.


End file.
